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Admit This to Women:           

I don't dip into the core, or the cares, of life.
How there are so many men terrified of the end of time, 
waiting for rewards and punishments that never come.
I don't even know how to write about sex.
When I was having it I didn't understand it.
And I have to ignore politics to avoid suicide.
If I spoke of the meaning of life
I would probably make life meaningless.
I can't satisfy you any more than I can satisfy myself.
But there are moments when I look in lonely clarity
from a stilled distance to see your remarkably soft hair
or your tough little hand or your liquid shadow
draping an otherwise jagged part of the earth
in a gentle, peculiar way, and I am stuck
simplified and puzzled to the spot
for unstained centuries, to document
being in the mist of your breath no longer one body,
helplessly watching you do your beautiful work.

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